


High Noon

by Pyrasaur



Category: Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Apocalypse, Dark Crack, Gen, Horror, Monsters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-08
Updated: 2008-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-21 22:26:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyrasaur/pseuds/Pyrasaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Facing the end of everything, Jake relies on a compadre he had never thought much of before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. High Noon

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a kinkmeme prompt: _This has probably been done before, but since it never gets old: Apocalypse fic! I'd like to stay away from the zombies, but if anon wants anon can go for it._ I decided that monstrous werepelicans were a perfectly logical direction to take this prompt in.

     There came a time in every cowpoke's life when he could be great — he only had to walk out in the noonday sun, stand tall, and draw.

     Jake never imagined it'd be like this. Adrenaline shook hot through him; the gun sat wrong in his hands. He'd wanted his moment of glory but, lord, not like this, never like _this_.

     With a crash of office chairs and a startled waggle of cacti, Officer Meekins tripped back across the barricade.  
     "The filing cabinets aren't holding, sir!" He scrambled to sit up, colt knees splayed, saluting with all his heart. "Attempts to reinforce them failed due to my cuffs getting stuck in the drawers, sir! Sorry, sir!"  
     Nothing would stop those monsters and they both knew it. They watched the reports, and planned and readied themselves, all for nothing. Devil eyes and flashing claws, and screams, and gaping beaks glistening with fangs and life torn apart around them: the Chief's scream; Gumshoe charging in stupid and brave; Lana grimacing, courage and blood on her pretty face—

     Jake's hands were numb, and they found his flask anyway.  
     "Don't matter none," he growled — a gulp and a quick burn down his throat — "How many shots d'you have?"  
     "My most accurate estimation is, err, three, sir!"

     Fire raged outside, the sky blotted out with pain and smoke. The thumping grew louder, edged with crunching wood and plaster. Here they sat, Jake and the yearling Meekins, with a handful of lead between them and the great beyond.  
     "Save your shots 'til you see the whites of their eyes," Jake said. Wherever he'd heard it, that was some fine advice.

     The door cracked, and the cabinets toppled and the werepelicans cackled louder, triumphant. If Jake looked over, sure as shooting he'd see flapping wings through the splinters, and talons tearing through like the whole station was made of old gunny sacks. No need for courage now — all they had now was their duty, their last stand.

     "Been fine workin' with you, Mike."  
     Gulping hard, lifting his gun like it may turn and strike, Meekins nodded.  
     "I-It's been an honour, sir."

     One last crash; they held guns in white fists, and they were ready.


	2. High Noon: Director's Cut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on an additional kinkmeme prompt: _Inspired by the fic above, I want to see more Jake/Meekins. I don't care what the plot/kink is, just make it happen!_ So here's the happy ending of the werepelican apocalypse.

     The sun climbed over a battlefield — buildings still smouldering, blood painting the streets, and feathers restless in the breeze. It was the most beautiful sight Jake had ever seen, all that aftermath and the fiery-gold dawn. He dropped the tattered remains of his poncho, and he watched.

     "I-Is it really over, sir?"

     He glanced to Meekins: cap long gone, soot streaked across his uniform, the snapped cord of his megaphone cradled in one hand, chin high and eyes wide and the pride of a man whose noose rope had snapped. Meekins'd never be a kid again; couldn't turn that horse around.  
     Flicking the cap off his flask — his hands shook, it took a Texas hour — Jake muttered, "Not until I've rustled up every one o' those damn werepelicans."  
     Meekins squawked. "But sir! That would be a very high-risk assignment—" and he saluted just in case, "—If I may say so, sir!"  
     "What does it matter?"  
     The dawn hung between them. Firewater blistered down Jake's throat, and he shakingly capped the flask, and shook his head.  
     "Can you get one wink of shut-eye knowin' those devils're out there?"  
     Meekins gulped apologetically.  
     "You saw how many rocket shells it took." Jake raked a hand through his hair, and memories stirred fresh — the screaming, the shrieking like vultures, the dust and the blood and Lana— "What if ... somebody else's still out there and ... I gotta make it right."  
     "We, sir."  
     And as Jake looked up, Meekins snatched up a hand between his eager own and he shone like polished spurs.  
     "What I mean is that I can't neglect my post while on active duty, sir! S-so, anything that you need, Officer Meekins is at your command!"

     If that didn't just beat all. And if that didn't just break the levee, so the shuddering everything inside Jake poured out — he was dragging Meekins closer, rough, finding him all bones.  
     "Thanks, compadre."  
     He couldn't say more; he'd break. Meekins clung like warm tar.  
     "Never give up, sir! That's what I learned from you!"

     Day washed over them, and there'd always be more moments.


End file.
